All Tinged Black
by Arianna555
Summary: There are a lot of things owed, still. Broken promises. Too much misunderstanding. Lit.


**All Tinged Black**

**Disclaimer:** I own thismuch. (There's no space there. ;))

**A/N:** I researched for this, though almost no technicality is stated outright. For more simple information about the basic idea of what's behind…this, see (wwwdotemedicinehealthdotcomslasharticlesslash10885-1dotasp). This story occurs over awhile in time, if that's not obvious. (I do not hate the name "Andrew," by the way.) And this is a one shot.

To Leigh, Christie, Lydia, and Kellie, for the beta, read-over, suggestions, and help. You're wonderful.

- -

The last thing she'd believe would be that this is beautiful. It's physical.

Sweat, and lust, and soft skin.

Sharp teeth on her lip. He tastes blood when he kisses her. He brushes her face with his fingertip, wiping it away. He tastes her—intoxicating—then he drives: returns to his own place, his place. He leaves, and it gets easier every time. She hurts him; she's frightening. But he has forgotten the word 'no'. He no longer remembers how to be so stubborn.

This is ugly. There will never be anything else to it.

"I don't really know what there is to say," she tells him frankly, pulling off her jeans. "I can't really think of anything."

"Nothing's needed."

"No, I think something is." She lies down, slipping under the sheet, and he focuses on her bare shoulder, bright and pale against the baby blue fabric. The sheets match her eyes.

"Not right now."

"Whatever you say, dear," she answers sarcastically.

The last thing she'd see in all this would be its beauty. It's not very picturesque. She ponders, is this what it's like for everyone, this kind of desperate sex? It's not even an effort to relight a "spark," it's just another way of saying goodbye.

He's leaving for real this time, slowly, surely, and this time, he's not only leaving her.

She thinks of the mysterious note she's just found. She read it, she returned to bed, she woke him because she wanted him. She doesn't know anything else. But she is scared.

-

"It's not my fault," was the first thing he said, after the first quick hospital visit, returning to her apartment. (It's not my fault. It's the perfect, perfect mantra.) He'd have gone to his own, but she'd called him, and she'd asked him, please come see me. I want to know if you're okay.

He hadn't realized till just then that he'd let on anything; apparently, he had.

She was afraid she'd hurt him, jumping on him like that, hugging him so tightly, gratefully. Lying on top of him even, she was afraid she'd be too heavy, but he said she wasn't. She noticed, though, the way he held his leg, carefully, as if he were afraid he'd break it in two. He told her he looked worse than he was. He told her it was just…he didn't deal with minor pain well. That was all. He didn't tell her what the chances were, and he didn't tell her what was wrong.

He hurts her. He hurts her emotionally, he's killing her slowly. She wants to regret these thoughts, but she can't help it.

It must be he who's dying slowly, but she feels more like it's the other way around.

He tries to act like he does not care. He tries not to want her kiss, but he can't help it either. He knows the secret she keeps, he knows about Andrew who lives four blocks away, healthy and probably fucking rich, but she does a good impression of loving him, Jess, and anyway, he could never come up with a suitable excuse to get away for more than a day at a time.

She won't settle for less than him wanting her, and he has no choice but to pretend.

When she first found out, she cried to make him feel guilty. He should have been: guilty for not telling her, guilty of not taking care of himself, she believed. Now she cries, tears muffled in her pillow, rough from cheap laundromat soap, and the last thing she wants is for him to wake up.

He sleeps more deeply now. It's something about needing the rest, about being less than 100, yet giving into exertion anyway.

She likes to believe he wants her, but she knows better than that. It's just that she needs him so badly. He can't turn her down. She will feel guilty the rest of her life, but at least she'll have that warm spark inside her, disguised as love.

-

He never told her, but she guessed.

Ballpoint pen on notepads etched imprints into his cheap countertop, and she'd slide her fingers along it, searching for new clues. She began to be able to read in makeshift Braille: nine o'clock appointment one morning, eleven o'clock the next. Appointments, just to make sure. In the beginning, the uncertain time when he barely knew what was going on and thought she had no suspicion, he always conveniently sent her home to her apartment just before he had to leave, but she'd call at those times, first hoping for a tremble in his message on the voicemail; later, as the silent play went on, she'd hope for a vestige of strength in his surly "I'll get back to you."

He, though, he was above these games.

It—the two of them—was about to be over when all of this shit began. She was sick of his inconsistency. He was tired of all the necessary effort for her (she blames his weakness now on herself, though she knows it's genetics' fault really). They were splintering and breaking, and she only wanted it all back when she discovered she couldn't have it anymore.

A chance encounter with a note in the kitchen, one early morning when she couldn't sleep. His handwriting, barely decipherable: _CT scan, 1:45_ on a sheet of notepaper—it was gone by the time they were eating breakfast, stealthily shoved down into his pocket when he woke (earlier than she) to make the eggs, but it was enough. Her determination was renewed. She would make this work, because even when they're not together, she cannot afford to lose him.

It took him a couple days to understand why, why she was acting so revitalized, so different, and when he did, that could have been enough to hate her.

She takes every fucking thing for granted, him included. She will have him, he thinks, until he is gone. Every day the doctors are silent, he becomes surer that soon enough, he will be. It's a principle, one he can't remember, something somewhat reminiscent of Murphy's Law. (No news is bad news?)

It's terrifying but there's nothing he can do.

For him, it would have been perfect, a timely end to this responsibility that is relationship. Without having to face anyone, he could stick it out. With her around, though, all the time, he gets worse every day. He never tells her this. For all the trouble—the chemistry itself he likes as much as the next guy. Likes it as much as the other guy probably does, the guy he suspects she's been seeing for weeks now. Andrew, he spits when he's alone. Andrew. What a fucking boring name.

She's got it all in control, he thinks. One person to support her, one to believe she is supporting.

He knows better than to believe her heartfelt words. Heartfelt is all they are—doesn't mean they're honest. He takes everything at face value, now. This is how he allows himself to enjoy what little he still has.

She knows only about the doctor's appointments. He never says a word. Knowing all he's sure he knows about her, he can look at her with her brimming eyes and still not tell her how likely it is that he'll be fine (this likelihood is getting less so, but it's cruel not to tell her while it still exists).

He _wants_ to feel guilty, but it's harder than it sounds.

-

The first appointment was the worst.

Keeping it from her, though, that came before keeping it from himself. Even that he only managed for so long.

She'd been pestering him—respond to those notices you keep getting, she'd say. Some arrived in the mail at her place: occasionally he forgets and writes down the wrong address on forms. (He'll have to stop that soon, he doesn't want it to upset her.) Doctor's, dentist's, bills, advertisement shit.

Doctors, he found later that week, are fucking psychic, especially when you're overdue for an appointment. There's always something wrong with you. This he was prepared for—he doesn't think much in the way of medicine. Any pills he's ever been prescribed, he rarely ever swallowed more than one, and look, he was fine. They like to give bad news, he'd already decided. Whatever they had to say, he'd listen and brush off and then go home, one place or another.

But they got proof so fucking fast. He was spinning in circles by the time they finished lecturing. You this, you that, you come back, you might just be in danger. We'll see.

Yeah, he wanted to reply, I've been in danger half my life. Never have I been in less danger than I am in now.

Let me out of here so I can try to patch the rips I caused this morning. Maybe today, I'll accidentally make her cry when I get home. His head was filled with negativity, with sarcasm, with his and Rory's last fight. Maybe they could tell, maybe that's why they took out their penchant for bad news on him. He could stand a little bit more, they believed.

But then they convinced him. They broke him inside out. He isn't used to bad news like that, the serious kind, the non-fixable kind, he doesn't know how to handle it. He drank six cups of cheap coffee in the cafeteria before he was capable of meeting up with Rory. He hid it from her. He pretended he was tired, which is so hard to do after six mugs of black caffeine.

They told him to come back for tests, the scan, make sure. Without thinking, he scribbled it on his counter. This carelessness gave him back his girlfriend (his lover?). God, he should've thought, should've known she'd find it. He has never wanted to be pitied. This wasn't a plan.

He's not entirely sure he's thankful for this. Isn't it best to let things go their natural path? But she does the dishes when she can tell he's tired, and she is a compassionate, cool hand against feverish skin. (He gets sick more often now—unrelated, but she believes it's all connected.) Whether the kindness is half faked or not, it's still there.

The words haunted his dreams that first night, though, still do, have since, and he is thankful he's not a sleep talker: deep venous thrombosis.

It sounds like the medical shows he hates so much.

-

"You look worse," she says bluntly.

"Rory."

"You do. You look sick. I hate seeing you like this."

He explodes. "What the hell do you want me to do, Rory? Clown makeup will only be useful for so long. I'm not sitting here bent on making you nauseous," he adds, staring at her face, which is crinkled in disgust.

It's not the literal problem that makes him look this way. Blood clots do not affect one's entire appearance. It's the pain, it's the reality of it all. It's the way he hides from every problem and therefore makes it worse. Four years of half living together, and she couldn't cure him of this particular affliction.

"No," she says plaintively, "that's not what I meant. It's just, isn't there anything I can do?"

"Nothing," he tells her.

"I want to help you," she says, lip trembling. "I miss you."

"Hell, I miss me too."

She sinks into a chair opposite him, crying silently. Her lipstick is smudged, he notices, and he doesn't remember kissing her yet today.

Whatever.

She rubs her face, smudging it a little more. "C'mere," he says. She walks over, kneeling beside him, water still spreading over her cheeks. "Come here." He wipes tears and makeup off her face, sending his comfort to her through his fingertips. She needs it more than he does.

When this is all over, she'll be doped up and happy on imagined mental stimuli from him, and he'll have nothing.

Every day, there is less information for him, and every day, there are more doubts in his mind.

-

"Come to bed."

He covers his face with his hands, wiping sleep from his eyes. "Ten minutes, hang on."

She's unbuttoning her shirt, leaning on one knee on the corner of her queen bed. "Please? We both have to get up early."

Slowly, he stands, walks. He leans over her, overwhelming her. "Is this okay?" she asks softly. He does not reply, but he kisses harder, faster. The texture of his skin is different, he knows, not because of the illness but because of his frame of mind and because of how little he takes care of himself lately. She pretends she does not care, but he knows she does.

"I don't want to hurt you," she tells him.

"I'm fine."

"You never act worried. I can't do it all for you, Jess, you have to take some of it yourself." Her eyes are full, face is pale. "I'm scared."

"Be that way."

"What?"

"It's useless, Rory. What will happen will happen." He sighs, recklessly. "Just enjoy now. I could get lucky." He presses against her, tasting her, trying to love her. Ignore what you thought you saw, the tall guy leaving this apartment yesterday, he tells himself. It doesn't matter. Soon, you'll be well out of this, and it won't matter anymore.

"I am," she whispers. "I am."

She wants to lie in bed and watch the sunrise through the window, but when she awakens late in the morning, the sheets beside her are cold and she can hear the shower running.

She has never felt so lonely.

-

He wakes up because she's sobbing over him. "Rory?"

"I can't do this."

"What?" He rubs his eyes sleepily, leaning on his elbows. "What'd I miss?"

"I never believed you wouldn't be okay," she cries. "You're always alright. You can do everything."

"No one can do everything."

"You can," she sobs. "You always could. I hate that you can't. I'm watching you waste away! It's not fair, I love you."

Something twinges inside him. No matter how untrue he knows these words to be, they hurt. Everything hurts lately, everything she says. His leg is swollen and increasingly painful. He doesn't remember what the idiot called it. Some long technical word with some spelling he swears was never English.

She needs him more and more lately: what she needs has an inverse relationship with what he wants, and need comes first. Her need of him, her need of his closeness, his reassurance and his comfort. But throughout her need, he wants to be alone.

He finally gives in, and every morning before she awakens to watch him, he pads his way to the kitchen and swallows his pills. He takes them at the same time even when he's alone in his apartment. It's good to get into a pattern, and anything that early doesn't need to be part of his day. He can go along and forget about it, go back to sleep without reminding himself that there is no more denying allotted to him.

He used it all up.

-

His eyes are bloodshot.

"You stay up too late," she informs him.

"Yeah."

She slides her hand across his chest. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"Damn it, Rory, no."

"I just wanted to be sure," she says softly.

She sits on his lap, facing him. They are so close, closer than they've been for days. She wishes he would hold her, pull her in. She misses their intimacy. She longs for it. She doesn't want to make him feel too closed in, but she wishes sometimes he would stay here with her, sell his apartment, just stay here, forever.

"I miss you," she says, almost inaudibly.

"So I've heard." He has become immune to these words. She repeats them too much.

"You have an appointment tomorrow."

"Whatever espionage company you employ, I want their number."

She rolls her eyes. "You can't be discreet even when you make an effort." Pause. "Let me come?"

"No."

"Please, Jess."

"No."

"It's not fair! I sit here, and I worry and I take care of you—"

"Bullshit." Gently, forcefully, he lifts her off his lap. He means to pace the floor, but instead, he settles in the chair across the room. He stares her down. "I don't need anything, you know."

"But I do!" she protests, stopping quickly, realizing her comment's bad timing.

"No way are you coming, Rory." He stops, breathing hard. "What will you be doing while I'm there, after all? Isn't that the only time you've got left with him? Wouldn't you rather be there than be…"

"What are you talking about?" she says angrily, flustered. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Like hell."

-

Her phone rings, late at night. She waits for the caller ID; it says unknown. Gingerly, she picks it up.

"Rory?"

"Yeah?"

He kicks at the plaster wall, without making contact, and winces. He'd rather say anything but this. "I have to stay here tonight."

Panic grips her, freezing her heart. It plummets to her stomach, her whole body feels cold.

"Do you watch ER?" he asks her, a good impression of calm.

Her voice is shaking. "Sometimes."

"Okay, then."

"What? Jess!"

"I can't tell you if you'll know what it means." Long pause, long pause. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Jess!"

"What about Andrew?" he says dryly. "You can move in now."

The fuck? She wonders if he's delirious. "Jess, I don't understand you! I don't even—" A vision dawns on her, that annoying bastard of a mechanic leaving her room with a flirtatious smirk, only turning away when he met her glare.

She remembers wishing Jess always lived with her, he could show this guy a thing or two.

She remembers anger, hot and quick, and no ability for retaliation. How dare he look at her that way, how dare he. She belongs to someone else, whether that someone loves her…even if he doesn't.

Everything is twisted around now. She can hear it in his voice, there's no time left to untangle a single knot.

"Night, Rory." His hand trembles when he hangs up the pay phone. He leans against the booth for a moment before sneaking back to his room, the door creaking a slow tune behind him.

-

It's late when she's fought through her inner demons enough to appear at the hospital desk. She thinks she's figured it all out, why he keeps pulling away from her. She let him suspect all this time, god, how could she? As if she could love anyone, anything else. She wants this.

"I'm looking for Jess Mariano?"

Something about her eyes gives her away. They let her in.

-

There are people wearing white coats in his room.

She presses her ear against the door and listens tearfully, so many words she doesn't understand. It's worthless, being an English major now, when it's important.

He's not giving them hell. Why not? God, why not?

-

She pries it open, softly, gently, and it squeaks only once. He will hate being seen this way.

Stepping in the room, she can hear his labored breathing. How quickly did this happen? "No," she whispers. Then quickly, she says out loud, "Andrew is my building's electrician."

"I'm not angry," he says very quietly, startling her.

"You should be!" She fights breaking down. "I mean, you shouldn't be. I understand but you never had reason and it was almost…I can't believe…how could you think…I would never…"

He looks at her with knowing eyes.

"Jess, I wasn't tired of you, I was tired of me, when I said that, it was all coincidence, right before this happened… You _were _responsible, you were, I was just… It just, it reminded me, what I have…all this…you in trouble, all of…nothing else was different, when I found out, it shouldn't've changed anything…" She's crying, she can't get the words out right. He touches her wrist.

"Wasn't really in trouble" gasp "until tonight."

Shakily she holds out the pills she found hidden at the back of the counter. She won't pay attention to this last comment. "It's almost full," she sobs. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"So you could make me" gasp, gasp "take them?" he tries to snort.

"Exactly," Rory sniffs. He envies her, sitting there, being there, and he's struggling, and he fucking hates struggling for things he can do himself. He fucking hates being envious of her.

He doesn't know what to say any longer. Maybe he'll close his eyes and his mouth will say it all, all by itself. There are a lot of things owed, still. A lot of broken promises. Too much misunderstanding.

He wants to make love to her again.

-

She sleeps in the plastic hospital chair with her hand, icy with fear, atop his.

His eyes are closed when she awakens; he is very, very still. A silent marble statue. He tends to be more active when he sleeps, curling to one side of the bed, adjusting the pillow to his liking.

"Jess."

She catches a glance of herself in the opposite window. Her hair is practically standing on end, caught in her shirt and messily slipping out of its perfect curls. Her face is tinged black with spread mascara, and she tastes constant saline on her lips. She didn't plan this out right. She wishes she would stop crying. She has a serious question to ask.

"Jess." He is quiet, very quiet. He does not stir. His name is heavy on her lips. She strains her ears for rasping breathing.

"Honey—" A nurse opens the door.

"Jess," Rory continues, oblivious, hysterical. "Jess, please, will you marry me?"


End file.
